


A Razor Made Of Stone (that cuts right to the bone)

by ProwlingThunder



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Timeskip, Pre-existing relationships, Slash, Spoilers, Turn this on the head, World of Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 09:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: Ten years without physical sensation. Everything finally felt real, and yet...It still felt like a dream, somehow. All that time he had slept held a certain measure of reality to it, lack of external stimuli not withstanding. It had been his reality. For ten years, apparently.





	A Razor Made Of Stone (that cuts right to the bone)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [countingpaperstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countingpaperstars/gifts).

> Title from @Omnibard, thanks a lot, you cur. <3  
Valentines Gift For: @countingpaperstars, because I said I would. Hope you suffer as much as I did.
> 
> We're gonna put this in Mature because I don't understand tags and let's err on the side of caution, yeah?

It was easy to believe it had been ten years, looking out the windows of Talcott's truck. Scarce, stubborn patches of cave lichen clung to the world, and the road was still black asphalt despite the cracks and deterioration. Talcott drove down the center of the road, obviously not expecting anyone to come down the opposite way, and he didn't know how to tell him that he didn't mind the bumps and jostling.

Ten years without physical sensation. Everything finally felt real, and yet...

It still felt like a dream, somehow. All that time he had slept held a certain measure of reality to it, lack of external stimuli not withstanding. It _ had _ been his reality. For ten years, apparently. The immeasurable softness of the world, the inherent safety of it.. He didn't know how to explain it and he hoped no one asked him to. By contrast, everything here was sharp and hard and all angles, even the sloping lines of Talcott's face.

He'd known him younger, he thought. Could still see him that way, and hadn't recognized him at all until he'd climbed into the cab and seen the line of cactuar figurines on the dashboard. One from every territory, and one from Altissia. He wondered what a cactuar from any of Niflheim's territories would have looked like. Or Tenebrae...? Maybe he could find him one from Insomnia. That would be nice. A little token from home, a boon of their victory.

He could pass it to one of the others. They would make sure Talcott got it.

The young man talked as he drove. About Iris the Daemon Hunter, and the Marshal, and Cindy and Cid who kept his truck up and running. He listened as much as he was able, but he lost a lot of the words, distracted by the sense of touch again. Touching again.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

Talcott didn't mention any of the guys, and he was grateful for that. As much as he wanted to know.

He struggled to find his voice, vocal cords so long unused that when he found the words they came out a whisper. "Where are we going?" With everything so changed, nothing looked familiar anymore, and he had never been given charge of the map. He didn't know the turns and curves of the roads anymore. They had probably changed after a decade, anyway.

"Hammerhead. It's become the primary outpost in Leide." He heard in the air the words he didn't say. Unspoken, lingering like cloying smoke, acrid to the taste.

The silence wrapped up around them like a heavy blanket. Talcott didn’t say anything else, though he could feel the young man’s attention on him, and he had no more questions to ask.

Well. No. He had a bunch of questions to ask, but asking them was to make them real, and he didn’t know if his heart could take it, so he didn’t.

He would know soon enough, at any rate. At Hammerhead.

He thought, fleetingly, about counting the light posts as they passed them. In the end it took too much concentration, so he simply watched the landscape pass by until a wealth of white light bloomed in the distance. The haze eventually cleared, illuminating the structure of the buildings into familiar shapes.

They had pictures of this place. How often had he looked at them, fondly remembering better times before everything had gone so wrong?

Though it looked different now. Heavy fencing and wire, hunter’s trucks and white lights that reminded him of the Regalia. People milled around, gathered in clusters, sitting on top of crates and manning spotlights. Two moved to open the gates enough for Talcott to turn in, a handful standing ready with rifles in case daemons had the bright idea to follow. He wondered…

No. No, he didn’t want to know. The lost were gone, and he would simply have to save what was left, if he could.

If he could….

For a long moment after the vehicle stopped moving and turned off, the strength to get out did not come to him. He watched people watching him, instead. A hunter with red hair cropped short, someone else who had found a shock of blue to paint in, another polishing a shield and trying not to appear obvious of their attention. Their clothes looked worn, some with patchwork, and he could see others resting on tailgates, bandages wrapping joints or long bones. Two or three carried bottles in hand, clearly getting ready to relax and forget something.

Some pain lodged in his chest. What if they weren’t here? What if they didn’t want to see him, or they had died, or--

He unbuckled, fumbling with the button. He had lost very little muscle tone for his time pent up, but that mattered little when trying to _ do _ anything. A decade without, he was surprised his lungs remembered how to breathe. How long had it taken him, how many falls, before his legs remembered how to walk? 

He remembered being so much better at this. Remembered being able to touch the door handle and pop it open with barely any trouble, swing out with a bounce. Now he was more careful. It would be just something if he fell flat on his face in front of people, wouldn’t it? Never before had he felt more fragile.

He took a few careful steps, stretching his legs, and then he cast a glance around him. Talcott let out a whistle. “Guys! I found him!” A moment of worry trickled down his spine. He looked at the cafe. 

The door was already open, a shadow blocking the entrance, broad-shouldered and tall. He knew the shape of him, knew him, and knew him better when he stepped entirely into the light and he could see his features, two familiar scars striking where bottle then blade had marred sun-kissed skin. 

Gladiolus Amicitia had his thumbs hooked inside his belt, older and taller than he remembered. There were frown lines around his lips, the line of his jaw still sharp, but when he looked at him red orbs were bright and clear, alert. 

Alive.

For a moment, neither of them did anything but look at each other. Gladio, always older and always taller, always stronger and more self-assured. Him, somewhat less.

Then finally the Shield shifted, a subtle adjustment, tilted his head in a small question. He tucked his jaw in answer, itching to go to him, reach out, touch him. It was a silly thing, that he didn’t. That he thought his friend might reject him or flinch beneath his touch; certainly he had never been strong enough to harm him in his life. But Gladio inclined his head, in consent or challenge or encouragement, maybe, in something he didn’t know, couldn’t discern. But it wasn’t bad. It was… it was good.

He caught him when he stumbled, strong fingers warm against skin that hadn’t seen sun or fire in so long. Shivering he pressed his fingers against the man, the bite of a cold buckle, warm leather, up against threadbare shirt held together by force of will. He had to stand on his toes to get high enough, and even then Gladio had to bend to meet him, and he marveled that he was still permitted to kiss him. 

He forgot how to breathe. Gladio pushed him away when his lung cried for oxygen, chest seizing tight, and held him by the shoulders repeating it like a mantra, so he clung to that. “I missed you,” he managed breathlessly. The Shield huffed at him, almost a laugh, he thought. Almost.

“Really? Couldn’t tell.”

Someone cleared their throat, deliberately drawing attention, and he was loath to release the older man. The issue was solved when Gladiolus turned, one arm slung over his shoulder, and in the light of Hammerhead and the cafe’s damned good lights, he was able to make out clearly the shape of Ignis.

He felt fragile still, and the elder man didn’t let him go. He found himself grateful for that, because even with tinted glasses on, he could still see the nasty burn scar the advisor had gotten in Altissia, less raw and violent but likely still painful, just the same as the guilt chewing in his chest. He wondered if the lack of sun had helped, these last ten years, and then decided that it probably hadn’t. Human beings needed sunlight to maintain good physical health, and knowing Ignis, he probably hadn’t hung out soaking up UV rays in someone’s greenhouse. _ Plant Whisperer Ignis. _ A game skin he felt personally cheated out of, now that his brain had thought of it.

“Hey Iggy. You look good.”

“Do I?” Ignis mused, a gloved hand resting on the door jam. Balance security, maybe, or just to prevent anybody else from spilling out of the diner and ruining a good conversation. “Thank you. I’d like to return the favor, but I’m afraid I will have to rely on someone else’s opinion. Gladio?”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Gladio staring at him, and it was all he could do not to shiver. “...yeah,” he said at last, nodding. “Yeah. He looks pretty good. Needs to shave that disgrace he calls facial hair, though.”

“I have been in a _ rock _ for ten years,” he managed, feigning indignation. “You find a razor trapped in stone.”

“Is that what we’re putting in a time capsule?” Ignis wondered aloud, moving down the last of the steps onto the asphalt. There was still some care and caution in his movement, but nothing like the last time he’d seen him. He didn’t even carry the cane they’d given him in Accordo, and no one thought he’d ever be able to live without it. But then, had anybody thought the sun would go out for a decade, either? “A razor in a stone? I imagine we could figure it out, though it would be easier to do a stone and a razor separately.”

“It’s not _ that _ bad.”

“Says _ you.” _ Gladio huffed.

“Yes, says me!”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that, if you please, gentlemen,” Ignis cut in, one hand lifted in silent question, _ can I touch? Can I look? _

There isn’t any glove.

Of course, the answer was always going to be yes, and he stepped away from Gladio to press his jaw into Ignis’ palm, because Ignis was polite like that and wouldn’t bridge the gap himself, and then he closed his eyes and tried to _ feel, _ the way Ignis was feeling.

They had done this a few times, after Altissia, trying to navigate the new way Ignis had to interact with the world. It hadn’t been bad. After ten years without touch, the act feels foreign and unfamiliar and almost painful, even after the crash of breakwater with Gladio. He doesn’t know Ignis’ fingers anymore, and Ignis doesn’t know his face, but where Gladio was fierce and firm, Ignis is… He’s gentle, is the thing. Almost too much so. It feels like a memory, the way it had being in the crystal, soft and effervescent. His mind is dangerously close to drifting, because it’s almost not enough to keep him grounded into the reality of the moment. It almost isn’t real.

He pressed into the touch a little harder, wishing his sense of touch were more finely detailed. Ignis usually wore gloves, so there weren’t many callouses to be had, and it was his good hand, so there weren’t any scars to distort the way he saw him, but the lack of anything called a defining feature meant he could barely feel anything, nothing hard or rough to catch his skin.

Nothing to leave behind an impression, a memory.

He wanted to kiss him, and didn't, couldn't. He remembered that Ignis had always been very private with his affections, all his reassurances and hugs behind closed doors. He had never known why, but it had been a thing he understood was something Ignis wanted, and he had done everything he could to respect that. That Ignis was touching him now, out in the open…

The Advisor traced his fingers over the ridge of his cheek, gently brushing away a drop of warm water, and then turned his hand over and tugged on long locks. "You grew your hair out," he mused softly, and said nothing about the wet on his cheeks.

He managed a sort of sad, twisted smile. "I didn't have anything better to do. Do you like it?"

"It could use a trim," the elder smiled back, soft and quiet and tired but so.. so nice. He loved to see Ignis smile. It had never happened often enough.

It’s not that inexplicable, the sudden urge he has for Ignis to cut his hair. For him to run his fingers through locks, and with the grace and practice Ignis has always had, trim away lengths too long to be pretty. He was concerned with his appearance before, of course, who wouldn’t have been, but not since waking up. He hasn’t thought about it since waking up. Why would it matter what he looked like? Why would it matter, when he was just going to walk into Insomnia, when everything else the Astrals said was still going to come to pass, if he had the strength for it, if he didn’t chicken out? And he couldn’t, of course he couldn’t, he had made his peace with this, mostly, and everything was riding on him pulling this off, he didn’t have a margin for error.

None of that stopped the desire though. Like wanting to kiss him, he wanted desperately to have those strong hands tangled in his hair.

But this wasn’t the time or the place. 

There may never be a time or place, for those things. Not anymore. He wrapped the memory of Ignis’ hand on his face up tight in his mind and held it, the memory of his expression, wished for photographic memory, picture-perfect clarity.

He wanted to stay like this forever, Gladio at his back and Ignis before him, wanted the world to stop just here, poised on the precipice.

But it didn’t.

Ignis stepped back and lowered his hand, took the moment to pull his glove on and fasten it securely, saying, “Look at us, hogging you all to ourselves. There’s someone who is waiting to see you.”

He almost forgets to breathe.

Ignis takes his elbow and Gladio’s broad hand rests on his back and it’s almost delicate, the way they hold him, like fragile glass they know is about to shatter. It almost hurts, the sharpness of it, but he _ feels _ it, the knowledge, the touch, what’s beneath it.

It’s not just Gladiolus and Ignis, not just the Hand and the Shield, it’s all of them, all three of them, here, like they were waiting for him to come back to them.

His eyes sting and his throat is tight and everything _ hurts _ when he sees him, sitting on a crate with his back against stained caravan tin. They’d slept in there once, the four of them, in beds too small back when everything was simple and not simple at all, and he’d wanted them forever then and he wants them forever now, and there’s just no forever coming--

He’d know any of their faces forever. Memory had blurred in the last decade, the way memories do with time, but he’d held onto them as long as he could. But he’d known him first, the way Shiva had known Ifrit, he’d seen those blue eyes cry tears like crystal, burn with fire and turn hard as any blade, molten with power he’ll never be able to comprehend, he’d seen those hands bloodied and torn, the set of his mouth twisted in determination, lips thin and pale, just as he’d seen them bruised and flush and wet, parted and panting. He’d parted those dark clothes and seen what they’d had hidden for so long, and they had known one another.

Their hearts had all belonged to him first, of course they had, there wasn’t anyone else first in their own hearts, there couldn’t be, not with the way the world worked. He didn’t belong to any of them, he belonged to everyone. But they were there, orbiting around him, like the world orbited the star.

In a way, his whole life had began with him.

It would end with him, too. He’d never had any doubt.

He didn’t want it any other way.

A dark clad leg kicked off the crate and booted heel thumped the wood, and he thought, for a moment, there was movement, a brown something, a dog’s head, Umbra, he thinks, but the most important person in his whole universe is leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees like he has all the time in the world, and he wants to run to him but he can’t. He wants to crumble but he can’t. He can’t move.

There are tears in his eyes and down his cheeks and he must be a mess, in clothes just this side of small, worn after ten years set in stone.

His chest is in a vice, squeezing his heart. He can’t breathe.

“Hey Prompto,” says the King, dark hair tousled and a smile that tries to blind him, like none of what he’s done or will do matters, and his heart threatens to jump out of his ribs in desire and he _ can’t breathe. _ “Welcome home.”


End file.
